Eye of Spite
by The Nth Degree
Summary: A glimpse inside the head of one Jackson Rippner as pain from a wedged instrument in his throat causes him to abandon all logic. After that moment, for him, it's personal.
1. Eye of Spite

**Author's Note: There's spoilers in this (duh)**. I've seen Red Eye twice since it's come out. That's how much I've enjoyed the movie. Some people tell me I'm crazy, but I know good movies when I see them!

And there was one part that made me jump both times – the part where Lisa jammed the pen into Jackson's windpipe. And so, I was bored and I created this. It's that scene (and chase through the airport) through Jackson's POV.

I don't own Red Eye or the characters / plots or anything like that. Those are all copyrighted DreamWorks stuff, I just wanted to flex my creative muscle (although I'm…not quite sure how creative using synonyms for 'hiss' all the time is. Hehe :-))

Rated for a bit of language. Ta-ta

Eye of Spite

He saw something flicker out the corner of his right blue eye, but since the majority of his sight was concentrated on the no-seatbelt sign that had just flickered off, he couldn't get his arms up in defence.

She reached across the seat and firmly lodged a long blue pen into his exposed throat. It pierced the skin above his pale green dress shirt easily, its lavish Batman-Joker-look-alike end piece grinning devilishly at his misfortune. He howled in pain, but it barely came out a gurgle. His eyes widened as the harsh, fiery pain of the situation began to sink in.

The bitch gave him an impromptu tracheotomy

He gasped for breath, also noticing her try to move swiftly over him. She landed beside him, and he immediately stuck his foot out and tripped her. He kept gurgling, trying to lurch after her, but she kept running. Nobody else managed to notice – how couldn't they? They were too concerned to note that she had jabbed him in the windpipe. His eyes were still wide as he fell to the floor, the pain of having the pen scratch against the back of his windpipe – it didn't go through completely. All he could think about was revenge. All he had wanted her to do was to make the phone call. She did that, and so everything should have been peachy.

But _she_ obviously didn't think it was 'peachy'.

He crawled along the aisle, pulling his entire weight with his forearms. He desperately wanted to yell, but she had made sure he couldn't have. Pain focused on his fleshy throat, throbbing around the pen. His light blue eyes turned steely and he let out another ragged breath as he pulled himself along with his left arm.

"Hey, sweetie," – that annoying woman that had gotten him to fix her bags in the overhead compartment was talking to him. He growled as she helped pull him to his knees, "Is everything ---"

He was on the verge of rolling his eyes. Mentally, he counted down the seconds. 3, 2…

"Oh GOD!" she cried, obviously revolted at the projectile protruding out of his neck. He forced himself up, his hands shaking. He shot a death glare at the woman, and gurgled again.

Gurgle…wasn't there _anything_ else he could do now?

He quickly turned his head to the front of the plane, but quickly regretted it as the pain shooting up his neck intensified. He closed his eyes as he involuntarily winced before bringing his neck back to its normal position. He had seen what he needed to see – Lisa was barrelling through the travellers.

He heard random shouts of concern coming from all around him as he stumbled to the back of the plane. His hands tightly gripped the seats, but that still didn't prevent him from tripping by people, things and the own exertion of his weight being thrown off by his ragged breathing. He roughly heard someone yell for a doctor.

_Son of a bitch,_ he thought as he continually made his way past the other passengers, feeling the blood trickle down his throat, _I'm not the one that's gonna need a doctor after this._

Shuffling, careful not to look up or down, he finally reached the bathroom. He narrowed his eyes as he went into the room and hastily hit the wall trying to find the lightswitch. When he had found it and pushed the lights on, the light pooled in the small airplane bathroom. He gazed at his throat in the mirror and hissed as best he could. His breathing wasn't getting any easier and his throat was getting sorer. He was transfixed by the object so harshly, and yet, precisely placed into his larynx.

_While I'm wasting precious time here, she's getting away!_

While looking at the reflection in the mirror, he began to shake with even more uncontrollable rage. He felt an arm brush against his and he turned around abruptly, ready to lash out at the person. Seeing who it was, a lowly flight attendant, he stopped, and only glared at her.

_How are you going to fix this?_ He yelled inside of his head, before turning back to the mirror.

"Sir, we – oh god… There's a doctor," she murmured under his heavy look.

He wiped some of the blood dripping down his chest off onto his fingers and then turned around to come face to face with a man who had been getting on everybody's nerves all flight. A loud, brash man who kept thinking he was better than everyone – the one who he had stopped from making a complete ass of himself in the terminal.

He hissed and shrunk away as the Doctor flinched at what he saw. He recovered quickly as he took out his glasses and straightened his tie. Putting the glasses on his face, the man could only watch as Jackson began to shift his weight from side to side – he would have begun pacing like a caged animal, but let's face it – the bathroom was too small.

"Don't try and speak…you'll damage your voice box…Oh, well that looks alright. It seems to be a clean wound…straight in the…"

He couldn't take it anymore. He grabbed the man's coat with both fists and slightly raised him up into the air. Everybody else was stunned; he looked like he had almost no physical strength whatsoever. They did not, however, consider how enraged he was that Lisa was getting away.

Hearing the news that the wound was clean, he firmly grabbed the smiling gremlin and pulled the pen out of his throat with a mighty wrench. Letting out another gasp, he paused for a moment, giving his normally handsome features time to contort into a nasty snarl before he threw the blood-dripping pen at the doctor and flight attendant.

He immediately felt blood trickle faster down his throat, so he put fingers to his throat to ease the tension. Flakes of dried blood around the wound dropped off, floating to the floor and even onto the shoes of some passengers. Taking off at a maniacal sprint, he flew down the aisle until he tripped over an unseen object. He fell, bashing his left knee off of the side of a chair, and causing his finger to push the wound in further, consequently opening it even more. He grimaced in pain, his shallow breathing becoming even more hateful as he shot a look back at a seemingly innocent girl with a blonde ponytail – she had shoved her bag out into the aisle.

Purposely?

He growled as he hopped to his feet and took off again. If he weren't under such time constraints, he'd take care of her with his bare hands…but there were more important things to be doing. He felt himself get a little light headed, most likely from the blood loss and the lack of oxygen he could get through his punctured windpipe. Seeing the end of the plane, with the door open and the flight attendant that – he smirked inwardly – thought him and his target were a couple, on the phone calling security, he knew he had to quicken his pace.

"Please, sir, you have to file a report with the police…"

Something fluttered by, and he took his bloody hand from his throat to snatch it. It was that cheeky blonde haired woman's scarf.

"My scarf!" she yelled as he almost savagely pulled it across her throat to get it from around her neck.

_Don't care, lady,_ he thought as, without decreasing speed, he wrapped it tentatively around his neck. That same stuffy flight attendant was trying to keep him in the plane, so he took his free hand, calculated quickly, and pushed the woman into the wall. Just as he predicted, her head bashed into the side of the airwalk and she crumpled to the ground.

He pulled the scarf tight but winced as the pain made him see white stars. Once reaching the terminal, he stopped, if only to take a couple of "deep" breaths and to rid himself of his blurred vision. He kept the scarf loosely hovering over his shoulders, the two ends almost neatly trailing down the back of his dark jacket. He narrowed his eyes as he looked around. Security guards were running around…

'Like chickens with their heads cut off' he tried to say, only to find out that he couldn't. It came out as a heavy exhale. He cursed inside his head as he took pursuit once again. He couldn't let Lisa get away. It was a shame – he should have expected her to rebel a lot more than she did.

_("No questions?" he had asked, looking at her with his shiny eyes._

_She had paused before turning around to meet his gaze, "What good have they done me this far?"_

_His mouth twitched. He really wanted to smile, but knew it would be bad if he did, "That' s the best question you've asked all night." He stated, thoroughly amused.)_

The two ends of his new scarf fluttered behind him, sending attention his way. He didn't care – his rage had overtaken his male-based logic. If he didn't catch her, not only would the mission fail, but he'd most likely be caught. He didn't want that to happen. He had went at least 15 years without being even remotely caught. What was it about her? How did she get a chance that no one else got? Was she this unconcerned about her father? Was he slipping up?

These questions floated in his head as he quickened his speed. The airport terminal wasn't busy – it was rather early in the morning, and so he could fly by people without the concerns of bumping into them. Although, he had the idiot security to deal with, who were flocking every which way.

He slowed to a stop as he flung his head around wildly. The scowl from earlier was permanently etched upon his face. He lowered his head for a minute, and looked out the corner of his eyes to see any fleeting instance of the hair that he had almost grown accustomed to Raising his hands, he tucked the two ends into his jacket. The scarf was now, whether he liked it or not, a brace of sorts. He still couldn't talk nor breath deeply...but he still had use of his limbs, and if he had his way, he could still throttle her to death.

He began musing over the sudden loss of his voice when a sharp intake of breath froze everything. There she was – looking to see if the coast was clear. So, she stabbed him in the throat and resisted arrest, and _he's_ the bad guy?

_Great_.

He took off towards her, and noted her shocked expression as she took off on her own. He pumped his legs faster, following her like a blood crazed hound. She deviated and took a high road. He contemplated for a quick second before deciding to take the low road. It led him to a set of stairs, which he hastily began to climb, his hand using the railing for support. After about 12 steps, he looked upwards and found her looking back down at him.

He growled before taking off again. This was quickly becoming a tiring game of cat and mouse. His blue eyes sparkled with un-relented hatred as he sprinted towards an inoperative escalator. _Jackson, get a grip on yourself_, he yelled to himself before jumping over the caution sign and taking the escalator steps two at a time.

Not even stopping, he brushed past two women having what appeared to be a tired conversation, and bustled up another pair of steps.

When on the landing, he tensed, flinging his head around. He realized that he should stop, since he could feel blood still trickling out of the hole and as it got soaked in the rag, it was leaving smearing patterns on his exposed flesh, but he didn't. That's when he saw her down the hall. His eyes automatically focused in on her, painting her red against the blah white of the Miami airport. In an all too familiar routine, he began to sprint after her.

He watched the stalls fly by – Starbucks, a book store, and that oh-so icebreaking Tex Mex. He let himself a sadistic grin as he passed the Mexican restaurant. But it faded as she turned a corner.

"Lisa," he managed to hiss angrily before trying to speed up.

He then saw her, looking frightened beyond repair. But then there was the matter of the glass doors sliding shut. With another general hiss, he flung himself towards them, trying to break them so he could get to her. He began to claw the glass as she stood smugly inside.

_Temporary win_, he yelled inside his head. Physically, he only barred his teeth at her as he gave the glass one final smack before the main doors shut.

The shuttlebus had left the airport, dragging the hope of getting the job finished with it. Raw emotion was let out of his eyes as he began to pace around the window, trying to find his backup plan.

That's one thing she had commented on. He didn't have a backup plan. Jack The Ripper didn't have a contingency plan.

But on the contrary, Jack Rippner did.

He stopped his pacing and looked out the window, his breathing returned to its normal shallow, ragged pace. He closed his eyes as he spat the saliva from his mouth to the ground.

Before he had left on this assignment, before he had even got the call for this, he was bored, so much that he started looking up his favourite words in the dictionary.

**Spite** – a noun.

1. Malicious ill will prompting an urge to hurt or humiliate.

He looked out the window and frowned as he saw her retreating figure breathing heavily in the bus. He glared at her long and hard, biting his tongue from making any other incoherent spitting noises that could be remotely considered as words.

He was glaring at her with his Eye of Spite.

And over his dead body would she ever get away from Jackson Rippner.


	2. Eye of Vengeance

**This chapter contains a small amount of vaguely graphic detail at the end. Just a heads up...**

2. Eye of Vengeance 

The knife he had was poised, ready to strike, but he was holding back. He managed to calculate that it had something to do with the fact that she was aiming a gun at him, and he couldn't reach her before she, as untrained as she was, managed to get at least one shot off.

He growled as he stopped by the door, his breathing still shallow and throaty, ain still coursing through his body, mixing with the adrenaline surge.

"Don't move!" she shrieked, pointing the gun in, what he figured was supposed to be a threatening gesture.

He had no intention to for the moment. He slowly shifted his position, wincing as he shifted the weight from his injured leg to his good one. What part of him hadn't she injured? His throat, his leg, his pride, his ego…the two latter hurt much more.

She had led him on quite the chase, but she had the disadvantage. Whilst she was on the shuttlebus, assuming she got away, he put a payphone call into his man outside her house informing her that she'd probably be arriving soon. When she was busy ramming a _stolen_ car into said obviously inferior counterpart, he managed to sneak around the back way. And when she _left_ her dad alone, he struck, taking the crook of his forearm and wrapping it around her father's throat, squeezing the air out of him until he blacked out.

_(She had come running after he took a bit too long to get her an ice pack, looking in every direction but in his._

"_Dad?" she called quietly, looking around until she came face to face with Jackson. _

_His murderous blue eyes flashed angrily as he bared his teeth at her, "Hi," he hissed dangerously, beginning to advance on her. Her eyes of shock conveyed her entire feeling. In all honesty, he wanted to click his tongue and make his favourite 'tsk tsk' sound implying that she had done something incredibly stupid, but he couldn't because of her pen trick. And that pissed him off.)_

He looked at her maliciously, every fiber in his being showing hatred. She didn't waiver; she didn't flinch. He exhaled raggedly as best he could since the piece of flesh in his throat loved to inhibit him in any way possible.

She had checked on her motionless father, who still found a way to groan in unconscious pain.

_(He tried to talk, but he couldn't. He frowned as he walked over to the other side of the lavish kitchen table. He suddenly had an idea – he put his index and middle fingers from his left hand up to the inflamed hole in his larynx. "You see, Lisa?" he croaked slowly, the pain flaring up with every word spoken. He took a deep breath, "I kept my promise…" he trailed before taking another breath. "I kept him alive so I could let him see what I'm going to do to you," his voice had gotten faster rapidly and his tone had went up a couple of notches. Oh – when this was over, hell was to be paid._

"_Oh, is this personal now?" she called towards him, arrogantly._

"_Just finishing the job," he answered briefly, raising the hand not to his throat up in a shrugging motion._

"_Oh? You haven't heard? Keefe is alive. His whole family's alive. EVERYONE is alive!" What? No…that wasn't possible. "You failed. You failed…Jack."_

_Jackson hissed at the almost offhanded use of his despised short name. How dare she…He circled the island menacingly, "I'll finish the job." He spat angrily._

_She ran. The coward. He sprinted after her, shades of the airport over again. She flew up the stairs, and he did after. On the top landing, she managed to find a fire extinguisher – a fire extinguisher – and throw it at him. He dodged it with a smug look of satisfaction and started up again._

_Only to have her kick him in the thigh with her 4'' heel. He yelped, although his throat didn't let it come out in anymore than a silent whisper, and fell back down the stairs. The shoe came with him, still deeply embedded in his leg. Growling, the pen in the throat incident still fresh in his mind, he bashed his head off of the wall and looked up vengefully at Lisa before she took off. Breathing heavily, he grasped the shoe and wrenched it out of his thigh. He looked at the heel before snarling and looking at the wound – déjà vu._

_Standing up, shaking, he limped down the last of the stairs before closing the door. He shot his head around, winced because of the still tender hole that was being stretched. He saw his dead idiotic companion and the 12'' knife that lay by his waist. Doing the best lopsided grin he could, Jackson limped over, knelt on his good knee and unsheathed it. He wasn't lying when he told her that he was a lousy shot – but he was damn good with blades._

_He just…forgot to mention that bit._

_Standing up, the blade's handle firmly gripped in his left hand, the right one holding the puncture on his thigh as he moved, he looked at Lisa's father on the ground. Joe Reisert. JR. His initials. Oh the irony._

_He figured he could kill him now, but then when he caught Lisa, who would watch it? Vengeance is sweetest when someone else witnesses it. He grinned sadistically as he began to trudge up the stairs to her last known place._

_She wouldn't get away.)_

He shot his head to the side and looked out the window. Faint sirens cued the background. He gurgled again with the failed words. Closing his eyes with ire, he released his breath. Raising his head high and moving it side to side slowly to reposition the scarf, he put his hand towards the gaping wound in his neck.

"I'll talk to you later," he gasped, his eyes sparking with madness.

"No! Don't _move_!" she screamed again. It took every ounce of will he had not to roll his eyes. He looked at the door, which was partially open, and slid his cold eyes back to Lisa. Door, Lisa. Door, Lisa. He took the former. He began to move, when suddenly, he stopped. Pain exploded in his left side, right beneath his ribs. A fiery trail of anguish followed the bullet before it stopped, obviously getting lodged somewhere in his body. He grunted as he staggered backwards, noting the spreading bloodstain on his shirt. Bitch. It _was_ one of his favourite shirts after all.

_(He heard her come in the back door, and he froze, not trying to make his breathing too audible – which was not an easy task. His mouth hung slightly open as he quietly turned around. He still couldn't see over the stairwell wall, and he silently cursed. He grabbed onto the stair railing with his free hand and jumped down the remaining stairs to the landing – it was a lot easier than limping with his bad leg. He grimaced on the landing, but immediately brandished his knife._

_He saw nothing but the Miami sky poking through the kitchen windows, lighting the floor with rays of sunshine. Growling, he slowly began to prowl, still limping. Her father wasn't on the floor, to which he wrinkled his nose and menacingly breathed outwards. He would find her…_

_Or, she would find him._

"_Here," she called as he crept into the living room. When he turned around to see the origin of the voice, he recognized a vase hurtling towards him. Unlike the plane, he was prepared, ducked a little bit and held his hands up protecting his face. It shattered against them and pieces flew everywhere, a small piece lodging itself in his hand, and one providing contrast to his dark brown hair. _

_He flew in her direction, up the stairs he heard her clatter. She locked the door at the top of the stairs as he bashed into it shoulder first. Whether he succumbed to pain or grew weary of bashing the door with his body, he took the knife and began to hack at the lock. She was throwing insults at him – ridiculing his male fact-based logic, which, unknowing to she, he had thrown out the window LONG ago. He was picking in-between the door and the wall like a radical whose religious god resided beyond the door.)_

Anger boiled through him as he snarled and swiped the gun out of her hands with a well-placed kick. She wouldn't get out of this alive – not after she had ridiculed him the way she had just done. Her startled looks made him attempt to smile grimly as his annoyance with her came to a head.

_(After finally severing the lock, he broke through the door. He searched through all the rooms upstairs when he had heard a swift movement – a movement that most people would have ignored. He flipped his head from side to side, quietly stepping back. She had just closed a door softly – he would know that sound anywhere. Twirling the knife in his hand before catching the handle when it was facing downwards, he crept behind an open door – she wouldn't know he was there until she tried to close it._

_Once firmly hidden behind the door, he gasped in the first real outward showing of pain since the initial attack. He hunched over, grabbing his thigh, which was oozing blood onto his black pants. The blood in fact, wasn't much of a difference in colour. The warmth gave him a little bit of comfort, but it still hurt. And that pain reflected in his eyes, something that didn't happen often. It was quickly replaced by another look…)_

**Vengeance **– a noun

1. Infliction of punishment in return for a wrong committed; retribution.

(_His hissing grew stronger as he heard her come closer. She had just been on the phone – it was probably the police. Bad luck. He saw the side of her, and was tempted to just finish it there, but he paused, and she swung the door shut. She screamed as Jackson jumped out, brandishing the knife expertly. He never expected her to be armed, so it caught him by surprise that she was attempting to block his stabs It was crude, blunt…_

_It looked like a field hockey stick._

_He let out a highly distorted gurgling yell of frustration as she ploughed into his knee – his good knee with the weapon, causing him to fall on the floor, where upon she whacked him in the back. Grunting, he reached for the knife that fellt from his hand, only to feel his pinky shatter under the blunt force of the instrument._

_This time Jackson howled – and it made it through his wounded throat, although he sounded like a strangled animal._

_She advanced on him, bringing the stick down on him, but he was ready, hopping up and grabbing the weapon from the other side, looking at her with a vague sense of satisfaction. Slamming her against the open door, he threw the weapon aside in the same general direction that she had tossed his knife. She wasn't expecting it and so, for the briefest of seconds, she lay still._

_In a delayed reaction, she began thrashing, trying to wriggle out of his grip. He snarled at her and tightened the pressure on her arms. His Eye of Vengeance was shining. She would pay for all the trouble she caused him – making the mission fail. He never had a mission fail until now. Never._

_She paused, catching her breath as she looked at him with almost pitiful eyes, "You're pathetic."_

Why thank you,_ he thought to himself, wanting to say it out loud, but couldn't since both of his hands were tied. So he only inclined his head graciously before grasping her and throwing her down the stairs. _

_A look of distain crossed his features as he limped to grab his fallen knife. Bending down, he picked it up, noticing his horrible appearance in its sheen – bruises and cuts were forming on his face, the hole in his throat red, raw and exposing his inner muscles. He hissed more feverishly as he began to sprint down the stairs._

_He never noticed the gun in her hand until it was too late.)_

He lunged at her, planning to throttle her with his thumbs – crush her windpipe before cutting it, just like she tried to sever his. Vengeance was swift, sweet and oh, so underrated. She squirmed away but he caught her in his slim but muscular arms, and turned her around to expose her throat.

"Hey."

The voice brought his attention upwards. He barely had time to register the gun in Joe Reisert's hands before he was flying backwards with a painful impact. The bullet pierced him underneath his left pectoral; he fell back on the hardwood floor in an unruly fashion. The pain seeped from his side to his chest – suddenly, his throat and leg didn't hurt anymore. All that mattered was the burning sensations that felt like they were going to engulf him alive.

Yeah, he _was_ the bad guy all right.

He opened his eyes, the blue still filled with raw emotion. He tried to say something, anything…but all he could do was gurgle as blood bubbled through his shirt.

The Eye of Spite, the Eye of Vengeance, both locked on the form of Lisa in her father's arms. He shook with an uncontrollable rage that was in his mind but couldn't be placed physically.

_This is not the end_, he thought fragmentally, the power to concentrate becoming harder and harder. He tried to lift his head, his eyes getting duller by the second. The dizzying force of gravity finally put pressure on his head, and he laid it on the wood, his brown hair matted in a pool of spattered blood.

_I'm not dead_, he said as he shot one last death glare at Lisa before he stopped fidgeting. _You still won't get away from me. When I return…_

And then it all went peacefully black.

* * *

**Author's Note: **And thus, we have up until the end of the movie! But why do I get the feeling he's not done with Lisa? ;-) Dun dun DUN! Hehe. Anyways, it was supposed to be a oneshot but your loving words brought it back! (in a short amount of time, no less! Hey, what can I say, I was kinda bored today) So I have some words to say cause you all rock ) 

No One Mourns the Wicked - Coming from you, that means a lot, cause I think Conditional is the best Red Eye fic I've read! Your comment inspired me, it really did. I'm humbled! And I'm waiting for next chapter! Don't be mean :-(

Chanel86 - Thanks! I Often have a hard time trying to come to terms with my writing style. It's often sarcastic and in a way cynical. I suppose it makes it best for this type of fic eh? Heh :-)

Bimefl - "I like the way you got into Jackson's head" - thanks. It came naturally. I dunno if that should scare me or what?

Claire Hall - Fast pace does rule. I suppose we have the movie to thank. I just took the pace and stuck in random evil thoughts.

Marumae - Again with the "I dunno if I should be scared or what" because of how I captured his mind. I think I'm always drawn to villians for some reason, mainly cause they have more interesting backstories, or in the case of Jackson, none at all - hehe. As for prequel, you were kinda right. You helped make it a prequel ;-)

Anwyays I won't bore you anymore. There will be at least 1 more part, and that's all I'm saying. School is starting soon and I'm going to a science-fiction convention on Saturday (DreamWorks has a booth - would it be too much to hope for Red Eye action figures! Hehe!) so I'll be pretty busy. So just look out for it. And I was kinda iffy about keeping the rating the way it was for this cause there's some heavy description. But I'll leave it and hope it's not too bad. crosses fingers

Once again, you guys ROCK!  
- Bethany


	3. Eye of Paroxysm

**The following contains descriptions of blood and stuff...just like chapter 2. So you're forewarned. Ok? **

**3. Eye of Paroxysm**

Nothing felt real. Not anymore. Not after he kept remembering that altercation over and over again. He wasn't even sure if he was only remembering – or if he was living it again. The vivid pictures looping in his mind did nothing to aid in healing his wounded ego…

If anything, it crushed it more. And that was worse than physical pain.

His condition was comatose, just as it had remained for weeks. Nothing changed. Not the shallow, yet steady beating of his heart as represented by the EKG monitor, nor the scars that littered his body, especially the one that gaped vertically through his throat, sealing the wound that Lisa had so selfishly inflicted on him. His wheezing breaths, though even and calm, never failed to catch the attention of the nurses that came in to check on his status and his torn flesh.

Searing pain…pools of blood…cloudy vision. It all seemed as though it was happening again and again. The end piece of the pen grinning maliciously, enjoying watching his pain – as if he deserved just what he had just got.

Her eyes – full of despite and also, underneath the surface, worry. Worried about what he _could_, and would not hesitate to do to her. Worried about his wrath. About how close he came…her last look at him. He mentally snarled at the memory…at her weakness and helplessness – and yet, he was the one reliving the memory over and over.

Little did he know that the snarl came through physically. It wasn't the same intensity as the one he held in his mind, but nothing ever was. His heart rate accelerated, the ever-constant beep echoing and getting faster. His eyes, rapidly pulsing under an REM like state began to move faster.

And suddenly, he could see beyond the barrel of the 9mm gun aiming at his chest. He could see beyond the despised looks he was getting from the father and daughter. He could feel beyond the blood soaking into his skin, and he could hear behind that rushing flame in his ear.

He could hear beeping.

He bolted up from his laying position, thrashing wildly, his hands tangled up with the thin layer of sheets that covered his half-naked body. He managed to get one arm free of the cumbersome sheets, only to feel someone…many someones, trying to grab his shoulders and force him to lay down. He growled as he flung his free hand back and hit someone in the neck. They cried out, and a thump – music to his ears – signalled that they had fell down quickly. The pressure on his neck and shoulders eased as he smugly noticed that the people backed off scared.

He began to shake with rage, the realization dawning on him. He winced as the adrenaline surge brought more attention to his chest, which had no gauze pad located over the entry wound. Blood was still finding a way to ooze out of it, even though it was stitched up. He looked down and frowned, and then looked at the rest of himself. Many sensors were located on his slim body, many on his arms and his stomach, one on the nape of his neck.

The pen.

He quickly put a hand to his throat and began to probe the area that was, the last time he had known it, a piece of flesh torn off into his windpipe. He slowly ran his index finger down the scar and growled again, unpleasant memories surging back to him.

He chanced himself to speak, "Where is she?" he rasped, throwing his ever-steadily increasing rage filled blue eyes to the four nurses around the stark hospital room.

No one responded, but they all gaped at him like he was a caged animal. He flung his head to the other side, the painkillers preventing any other pain from reaching its way into the brain.

"WHERE IS SHE?" he screamed in frustration, curling his hands into shaking fists of anger. The intravenous needle in his wrist popped out with his raising blood pressure, falling to the floor, dripping its medicine so it began to form the beginnings of a puddle on the floor.

_What are they waiting for?_ He snarled, looking around the rather cramped room – what, with all the equipment and the nurses standing around him. _Are they acting like morons for a reason? Do they not understand me?_

He let out another loud breath, probably the way he would breath for the rest of his life, slowly began to calm down and tried to get control of the situation.

Looking at the first nurse, a man about a head shorter than him, he saw a fresh bandage – they had been in the process of changing his dressings, which is, he irately thought, why he now had blood dripping down his stomach and leaking onto the starchy bedsheets.

With almost an explosion of light, the sun burst through the slatted window. He frowned as his mind grew three conclusions. One, he was in a high security wing of a hospital – thus the extra orderlies, and, what he could safely assume, many guards outside. He grimaced as he freed his right hand from the bed rapidly crimson stained sheets and saw it handcuffed to the metal frame of the bed. That confirmed his first thought, he mentally sighed. Challenging, but he got out of worse.

Second, the day was partially overcast _or_ there was something that could block the sun for a long period of time such as mountains or a grove of thick trees. He took his shaking hand and smoothed his hair absentmindedly. He liked it a certain way, no matter his predicament. And it _wasn't_ like it was right now.

He shifted his feet and grimaced as they refused to cooperate. Something had happened – he couldn't move them. His hatred for Lisa turned for the worst as he examined the third conclusion – by the length of the shadow that had briefly appeared when the sun was out on a small table, he could deduce that it was either early in the morning or getting into the late evening hours.

Very drained, he flung himself back down onto the hard mattress, leaving his chest exposed, still bleeding. The nurses were still not doing anything but staring at him in a fascinated matter. He rolled his eyes as he looked at the tiled ceiling.

Why did _he_ get stuck with the incompetent medics?

"I'm bleeding here," he finally muttered after a couple of tense minutes. Honestly, he felt like crap, and the more he resisted, the worse he would feel. He could feel himself finally getting off of the high that the painkillers had put his body on, and he came down to earth with a crashing reality.

He winced as his stomach contracted, stretching the scar from the bullet he took on his lower left side, and he winced at the wince, which put pressure on his still swollen throat.

_This. Sucks. I need a way out of here. And one of these nurses has a way._

After hearing his comment, the nurses began getting into action, the one with the gauze in his hand applying gentle pressure to the main bullet wound. Jackson gurgled as he shied away from the touch, which – well, it didn't hurt, but it flared up both unwelcome pressure and images of his shattered ego.

He hated being this way, so vulnerable and prone to anything that anybody were to try anything – but he wasn't stupid. He'd get out of this. She put him here, and he was becoming more than personal; more than logic; more than business. He wouldn't take it out on the nurses…

_Much_.

The edges of his lips curled up in a halfhearted smirk. It soon evaporated and he groaned as he attempted to move his left leg, the one with the puncture wound in it. Immediate discomfort flared up in his senses as it slowly complied with his demands.

Here lay Jackson Rippner – bloodied, broken and full of vengeful thoughts. The nurses didn't know the latter though. They didn't even know what he was in this area for – they were only told that he was extremely dangerous. Their looks conveyed it, and Jackson interpreted it correctly. They only saw him as a patient with annoyance written all over him for being there.

He quickly propped himself gingerly on his elbows as he watched the nurses filing out of the room, taking _all_ of their instruments. He allowed himself to chuckle in appreciation. They didn't turn to look at him, most still scared by his previous actions.

At least they were taking him seriously. That was one part of his ego suddenly attaching itself to another.

Lisa and the other 'JR' flashed into his mind and his laughter stopped, his eyes beginning to sparkle with his controlled anger. How dare she do this to him, leave him crippled while – she was probably going back to work – having her ever so _beloved_ sea breezes, acting as though nothing had happened.

_She couldn't go on like nothing happened,_ he told himself, the smirk beginning to return smartly, _you almost killed her. And you will. Once you get out of here._

He noted the tingling feeling in his legs was the signal that he could start trying to move them again. "Wait," he called out, projecting pathetic waivers into his tone on purpose. He hid a grimace at the loathing that he had for that tone, but it had done his job.

A young nurse came over, looking concerned, "What is it?" she asked kindly.

_Showtime_.

He frowned as he made his body start to shake – an old useful trait, "I…I…where is she?" he whispered, staring at her with his blue eyes.

"Where is who?" she whispered back, putting her hand on his bare shoulder. He scowled at her touch. It irked him. Why did _he_ have to play the pitiful soul? She must have obviously taken the scowl to the cold dampness of her hand because she gave him an apologetic shrug and took it off.

"My…Lisa," he murmured, feigning his act into slipping in and out of unconsciousness. "Is…is she okay?"

"The one that came in with you at the same time?" she cooed, to which he nodded.

He was utterly revolted with himself. But it had to be done. Finally, the pain in his legs evapourated as the tingling stopped. He shifted his position, twisting his hips and bending his knees so that his ankles were closer to his thighs – and hand. He shuddered for good effect.

He looked at her softly, seeing genuine care for his agony hiding in her features.

He had to do everything he could from breaking into a wide scale grin. She was his for the moulding. He bit his lip hard, preventing the smallest of chuckles getting out. His emotions were complex at the moment, embers of rage just waiting for the right catalyst to make them into the full-blown fire of hatred, the small amount of determination to get the information he needed out of this young, rather stupid, nurse, and the miniscule amount of glee he felt because of his brilliant idea.

"Where…did she go…home?" he croaked, blinking a couple of times for effect.

The nurse bit her lip sadly before nodding, "She told me that she was going to her father's about half an hour from here…"

Jackpot.

"…And then back to her job. I dunno where that is though,"

"I do," he muttered, not bothering to leave the spite out of his voice. She didn't notice it.

"Thank…you," he uttered quietly.

His handcuffed hand, which he had so strategically placed beneath the sheets was groping at his ankle, underneath the hem of his pants – where was it? He tried not to frown too deeply as he couldn't find what he was looking for.

_There it is_, he finally grasped onto something hard on the back of his ankle. It wasn't a knife, no; he would be stupid trying to get on a plane with a knife hidden on him. But it was, as he learnt, a trick of the trade. He grasped a sharp medium sized piece of glass in his palm as he unattached it from its holster on the back of his calf. It had just the same lethality as a knife _and_ it didn't trigger any metal detectors.

"One last thing," he murmured, looking into her pretty brown eyes, frowning. "Could you adjust the position of the handcuff?" he whispered, choosing his words carefully, "My wrist is beginning to be rubbed raw…"

He sighed when she paused, playing distraught and pain.

**Paroxysm** – a noun

1. A sudden outburst of emotion or action: _a paroxysm of laughter_

"Sure," she smiled, obviously taken with him. As he had suspected, she decided to lean over him and pulled the sheets back from his handcuffed hand.

Luckily, the chain gave him enough time to do what he needed to do. She peeled the crimson sheets from his hand and gaped in horror at the sheen in his hand. He was quick, bringing the point quickly through the air, slashing against the skin of her forearm, deeply gashing up her arm. Blood spattered as she tried to howl in pain.

It was normal. That's why with a scowl he took his left hand and wrapped it around her jaw, the force turning her over so that she was bent over backwards, only supported by her feet and his strong arm. He felt the muscle in his arm tensing, and he changed his scowl into a smile.

"Oops," he rasped heavily, before taking a relatively deep breath in, "I'm sorry – did that hit you?" He growled a small bit as she began trying to bit into his forearm, but he didn't let go. "Shhh, you'll soon feel a wave of dizziness and nausea. But please, don't throw up while my arm's still around you. That would be unpleasant."

A small bead of sweat cascaded down his forehead as his Eye of Paroxysm shined maniacally. This was what he was going to do to the bitch. And her father too.

This was his life.

He kept shushing her like a parent would do for a newborn child who wouldn't stop crying. Every time she started squirming more intensely, he'd make fresh incisions on her arm.

She soon grew limper in his arms, and he tentatively relaxed his arm, letting her main body fall to the floor. The arm with the blood trailing like a highway was left on his bed, right close to his body. He lowered his left hand and patted hers with mock concern.

"I'm sorry that your life wasn't going so well – I'm sorry I couldn't talk you out of it."

Snickering, he flipped the glass to his left hand and began to work the point into the small crevice of the handcuffs. A paroxysm of humming overtook him. It was an unknown tune, but it sounded right to him. His brown hair fell into his face, causing dark brown stripes to inhibit his vision. He blew them away and began working again.

The guards outside? They heard nothing but the rustle of sheets. Nothing to be suspicious of.

Meanwhile, Jackson, with eyes of fury and intense concentration carved away hastily at the metal lock like his life depended on it.

It did.

And the lack of Lisa's life, too.

* * *

Author's Note: You. Guys. Rock. Seriously. What started off as a oneshot, you guys helped make a multipart fic that I'm really enjoying writing. Seriously. And I know I should be a loser for these quick updates, but random things pop into my head and I go "OMG! That would be PERFECT!" and I can't help but write it before I forget it. Umm, oh, I kinda stole a line from the movie Red Dragon (prequel to Silence of the Lambs) - (line about the wave of dizziness and nausea) I just watched it this afternoon and it just occured to me being something he may say. Heh.

The end was originally going to be a knife but then I realized he would have set the metal detectors off, and blah blah blah - so I had to look for a sharp object that wouldn't set it off. I changed the ending a little bit from the first posting to make it a little bit nicer (And yet still psycho in the Jackson way). Oh, and the rather ditzy orderly is my creation. I just made her vulnerable to his blue eyes...like...me. :-D Who _isn't_?

Erik's Mistress: Well, we have both A and B in common - lol! Thanks for the compliments!

Claire Hall: I want Red Eye action figures so badly. But I don't think they'll have them :-( - we can dream though, right? And no, I didn't kill him. I think Dr Hannibal Lecter said it best, "The world is a much more interesting place with you in it" - you in this case referring to Jackson. But you rule too! LOL :)

Bimefl: You're right, hospital. We have a winner! (ding ding) The beginning was kind of hard to write, but I think it was worth it.

No One Mourns the Wicked: Wow! Thank you SO much for putting the parts you enjoyed in your review - I can use them to further base future Jackson comments/thoughts on. I hope there's some parts in this chapter you like too. It's kinda restricting having him handcuffed to the hospital bed, but I think (hope) I represented him ok. Oh, and thanks for the kudos about me remembering the movie. I figured I got some of it out of order, like the kitchen part and the upstairs part, but it flows, so I'm ok. :) Continue reviewing and please get Condition up!

Anyways, did I mention I love the word **paroxysm**? I really just wanted to use it. So yeah. I'm such a geek. Without getting even more ranty, I just hope this can subdue you for at least the weekend - I have a busy one lined up. Keep enjoying and I'll keep writing to keep you enjoying! Heh.


	4. Eye of Hauteur

**4. Eye of Hauteur**

He lay awake in the timeless hours of the day, the only thing keeping him company the constant beeping – reaffirming his knowledge that yes, his heart was beating. Like he didn't know that already, he sniffed, particularly miffed. The darkness shining through his window gave no indication of the time or place. He sighed as he lolled his head over to look at the door, the small crack of light at the bottom of it toying with the shadows on the other side.

He had to get out of there.

He put one hand underneath his matted hair and grasped the side of his cranium firmly. It had been at least six hours, if his inner chronometer was working properly, since they had found the nurse bleeding on the floor. There had been no aides since then, which the elated Jackson enjoyed.

_(He had smoothly operated the lock on the handcuffs, prying the glass through the metal. It had no choice but to comply. It squeaked quietly, letting him manoeuvre his wrist around, freely. He grimaced as he noticed some of his flesh beginning to peel away from the chafed areas that were hidden by the crude tool of restraint. He slipped his hand out, and rubbed his red wrist gingerly with his other hand. It irritated him – but what didn't? The fact that she got away? The fact that he had bullets put into him? No, they both stung with the sharpness of a knife._

_Putting his wrist down, he concentrated on the piece of glass he had sticking out of the handcuffs. He grabbed the end of it with his forefingers and pulled down quickly. The glass snapped around the tip, leaving it in the locking mechanism. He grinned slyly as he examined the now jagged piece of glass he held in his hand. _

_Humming quietly to himself again, he picked the arm of the nurse that was still laying on his bed, and cautiously retraced his hasty lacerations, reopening them and even adding others for effect. Satisfied, his smile widened as he dropped the bloody glass on the floor, right by her sprawled body._

_He slid his cold eyes over to his other wrist and sighed as he flicked a couple loose flecks of skin from it. It left a horrible blotchy area in the dead center of the back of his wrist. He began mumbling hoarsely as he slid his wrist back into the slightly loosened handcuffs, before tightening them again. With the glass still firmly lodged into place, he could open or close the device for his own uses._

_He closed his eyes and yelled._

_The guards on the outside of the door burst in with their handguns drawn. They pointed at him suspiciously, before sliding their gaze down to the floor. One of the guards, a short moustached man gasped in horror as he laid his gaze on the bleeding arm._

"_Did you do this?" the other guard asked Jackson quietly, to which Jackson only opened his eyes and shook his head._

"_No…" he trailed off, his blue eyes flickering with something. The guard took it as fear, but it was truly amusement. He was like that. "I asked her to help me with something and she replied saying she was no good…that her life was not going anywhere."_

"_And how did she do this? She didn't have the tools." The guard shot back, having his gun still trained on the forehead of Jackson._

_Jackson wanted to flush with annoyance. The guard wasn't worth his time – nor was the one laying over her body trying to find a pulse. "Well, did I?" he calmly replied, staring the guard straight in the eye._

_He saw the guard waiver slightly from his stare._

"_Sarge…" a weak voice – the moustached man – came from under the bed, slightly muffled by the surroundings, "there's a bloody piece of glass here. Real jagged, too." He added, shimmying out from underneath the bed. Noting that the sergeant's eyes were firmly trained on his partner, Jackson rolled his eyes. _Why do something that could incriminate you when they're looking? _He asked himself, enjoying his little game._

"_Take her out…have her examined," the sergeant answered, letting his professionalism break for a second as his distaste shone through. Jackson shook his head almost remorsefully. Not because he did that to her, but because she was stupid enough to let it happen.)_

Two guards, at least. He rolled his eyes as he coughed. He needed a way to bypass the guards, preferably without bloodshed. He wanted to, but if he did, they probably wouldn't be ones to stop trailing him. If he disappeared without a trace, well, that would be a lot easier on his part.

He sat up with a small amount of hesitation and brought his arm around to place the thumb and forefinger of his left hand in the corners of his eyes. White sparks erupted as he closed his eyes, jolting him awake. He needed to be alert as ever.

_I'm gonna find a way out of this,_ he told himself, nodding slowly to credit his inner thought. _These people are morons – hey, it could be worse. There could be SWAT teams on the other side of the…_

…_Son of a bitch._

He growled as that possibility occurred to him. He would have yelled a large string of obscenities, but he didn't want to alert the guards _and_ his throat still pained him. He rubbed a hand over the silver scar that lined his throat, and shook his head sadly, almost remorsefully.

It all started with that. If she had been a good little girl and _not_ stabbed him in the neck, it would have never come to this. He wouldn't be in the hospital, trying to think of an intelligent way out. She would have gone on with her life; everything would have been just fine.

She just made it harder on him.

He frowned as the shadows outside the door began to move and shift more. He took his weak legs with both of his hands and gently guided them off the bed, so that he pale feet hit the cold tile floor, sending another jolt of feeling through his body. He didn't want to try standing up; he didn't trust himself to.

And that made him angrier. Rage was always a part of his character, but when it was blown into a storm, such as in this instance, he was a hurricane.

"Yeah, he sleeping?"

A voice – from the other side of the door. His blue eyes focused in on the door, narrowed a small amount, making them look more dangerous than their cold glare let on.

"No sounds to tell us otherwise," another voice. "We still on for that shift switch in 20 minutes?"

His eyes lit up, the deep blue almost becoming luminescent. He frantically looked around before grinning malevolently.

_Perfect. Twenty minutes…a guard shift. Ah, they're making it too easy on me._

He analyzed the length from the bed to the door – it wasn't very far. He could make it…

Snarling, he ripped the sensor monitoring his heart from his chest and threw it on the bed. The EKG monitor finally lay silent. Jackson basked in the silence happily.

He grasped the edge of the bed with his palms, curling his fingers over the edge, making sure for his fingertips to dig into the mattress. He stood up, although he was almost bent over backwards. The grin on his face was wavering, just as his legs were. His muscles, after not being moved in some time, didn't want to cooperate with him. Grimacing against the will to collapse, his arms began to shake as they held his entire weight.

Gritting his teeth, he waited. Jackson was pissed off. But when wasn't he, recently?

_She'll pay in spades!_ He yelled to himself, looking down as the shaking became less and less. _She'll wish that she had jammed the pen into a lung or my heart…although I should probably thank her for not doing that._

His tired muscles stopped their protests and finally silenced. His smile returned as he took a tentative step. Followed by another one.

They obliged.

_Like the obedient little limbs they are,_ he sneered as he straightened up and let go of the bed. His hair fell into his face, but he didn't bother to correct it. He was too focused on taking silent, cautious steps around the room to get used to walking again. He slowly walked over to the window, where he looked out.

A beautiful night scene lay before him, pale half moonlight obscured by trees causing an eerie glow on the nearby everglades. They were far off in the distance, but the water shimmered brightly in the white light.

_Oh come now,_ he thought, mockingly, _you're admiring freedom from a window. Where's the irony in that?_

Sometimes, he couldn't believe he came up with his own thoughts – but they were always entertaining. He had to stifle his chuckle as he turned away from the window and crept towards the door. His demeanour changed frighteningly, just like it had when he was talking to Lisa. He was all business. He stopped in front of the door and carefully leaned close to it. He took his breaths in controlled gasps, not wanting to alert the guards that he was closer to them than they expected.

…_Or want._

He frowned as his eyes shone confusion. There wasn't enough movement on the other door to classify more than one person. Had it been twenty minutes already?

"Stupid Dwayne…" he heard a voice mutter. One guard. "Going to get coffee, leaving me with this Jack the Ripper psycho."

Jackson fumed. He was _really_ considering letting there be bloodshed - especially since there was only one guard. The expendable guard, just like the expendable nurse…he mentally shrugged, he didn't care, and it would be a moot point in the whole scheme of things.

He paused, taking a breath as he grabbed the handle to the door. He turned it slightly, trying to make sure that the guard wouldn't notice it. He hoped the corridor was empty…hoped? He felt it. He smirked.

_You think they would lock a door in the security wing…_

**Hauteur – **a noun

1. Haughtiness in bearing and attitude; arrogance.

He turned his body so that he was looking at the wall with the medical equipment on it.

He slammed the heavy door open violently, pushing his shoulder into it. He didn't stop until he heard a crack and then a thud. He leaned from the door, quietly sneaking out from behind it to look at the damage he caused. Frowning, he didn't see any blood on the fallen guard, only a massive welt on the side of the head. He had no time to react.

He turned his head down the hall; no one was there. He breathed a (raspy) sigh of relief before looking back at the guard.

Standing over him, his cold eyes turn icy. He knelt down, grabbing the wallet from the front pocket. It wasn't as nice as Lisa's dad's wallet, he noticed as he looked at the rough brown outline of it. He flipped it open with his index finger, removing the things he needed – the cash and the credit cards. He hastily put it back in the unconscious body's pocket and unzipped his jacket, throwing it over his shoulders. When the guard – Kian – woke up, he would only think that…_Jack the Ripper_ took his jacket.

"The name's Jackson," he spat.

His Eye of Hauteur burned as he stowed the credit cards in his own pocket. Nobody seemed to know how to keep a manager for an highly successful Agency pinned down, and if he could, he would have started laughing right there. But he couldn't – he didn't have the time, patience, nor strength. He could feel his legs starting to protest against his movements again.

Shoving his hands in his pockets, he began to walk down the hallway, head pointed downwards. He couldn't afford to be recognized wandering from the hospital.

They couldn't know that _he_ was on the loose.

* * *

Author's Note: Whee! Another chapter! Apparently the big gathering yesterday was a dud and so I didn't have to act social! I did enough of that Saturday at the sci-fi convention! A couple of quick notes from it: There were no Red Eye action figures, as I assumed. I woulda died to have one though. I saw a guy there, and he was dressed up like Scarecrow - I started talking to him and I asked him if his eyes were real. They were reaaaaally blue, just like Cillian (although his are still better). He said they were contacts. I shoulda got a picture with him :( But I did get a picture with a really good looking guy dressed as a Starfleet Engineer :) YAY! 

A humerous note, this was gonna be called Eye of Abscondment (abscondment: the act of running away secretly as to avoid arrest), but it didn't sound right. So I asked my linguistics friend who thought about it long and hard and said "hmm, you're right. It doesn't." By this time, I was near the end, and so I reread it and discovered how arrogant I made him seem in this chapter - LOL. :) Makes sense, no?

Elle Farraday-Merchant: You know, you're completely right. I've, myself, only been in the hospital 3 times - once to get stitches, the other when I pulled all muscles in my neck and once to diagnose my Fifth Disease. And so it completely slipped my mind and now I feel so bad :-/ Will you so humbly take the explaination that the guards said that he was too dangerous to be around except having medical attention done to him? Cause otherwise I'm gonna tear that apart :( Thanks for pointing it out though!

Bimefl: Yep, got it. Thanks :) He's not absolutely out of the woods yet but so far only one guard knows anything and he probably has a concussion so...yay for him! lol

allee kat: Thank you for having fun reading it, and I'm happy I'm expanding your vocabulary. It's kinda odd, cause I'm using my own favourite words here, just cause I love using them a lot in writing or speaking or I like the way they sound, or they just - rule lol. That and I completely SUCK at teaching

Chanel86: Who knows, you may get it ;)

Erik's Mistress: YAY! PLUSHIE! (squeeze like anime squeezes dolls. Anime smile) Yay. Anyways, glad you're enjoying it. You didn't have to wait long, eh? Hehe.

yra: Yay I kept him in character. You don't know how much I doubt myself about keeping people in character when I write them. I've been having problems with my Cranefic cause I'm always worried about him going completely OOC. So it means a lot when everybody says I did XD

Eccentric Banshee: WOW! OMG I laughed so hard at your review! And I know what you mean about people saying it wouldn't help, being "distracted" hehehe. It'd definately help me though! ;) Jackson had a lot of time on his hands, mainly cause I'm such a geek and know the words and wanted to use them. Sad, yes. I'm also glad someone liked the Red Dragon reference. I love the Hannibal trilogy and in ways, I found a couple similarities between Jackson and Hannibal - mainly their calm, cool outer dispositions while being maniacal on the inside. Agree? lol, sadly enough, I put a Hannibal reference in my Cranefic. As for if the orderly's dead, well, you can read this and take it as you will. I left it open so people who want her to die can let her and others who don't cannot. You know? XD Thank you for sending me into complete gales of laughter!

Anyways, **thank you all** again. You guys are what keeps me going (although even if you all dropped off the face of the planet, you've motivated me so much that I want to finish it anyways! THAT'S how much you rule :D)


	5. Eye of Animosity

**5. ****Eye of Animosity **

Frowning, Jackson put a hand up to his bare throat before moving it to the reason _why_ he had moved it in the first place – to adjust his sunglasses. Not four hours after his quite _easy_ breakthrough and he was on the streets of Miami, taking a breath of fresh air after driving for about two of those four hours, hands in his pockets, seemingly minding his own business.

But his head had other plans. It was churning out a perfect plan to get back at Lisa; no detail could be left to chance anymore. Sniffing, he placed his hand back in his pocket as he continued strolling down the street, albeit a bit slower than he normally would have, a combination due to the focus of his mind and the injuries that _she_ gave him. Impromptu tracheotomy indeed, he mused, anger shooting through his veins. As for his plan…it involved her throat.

And a_ pen._

Chuckling hoarsely to himself, he turned the corner and stared down the early morning sun as it was peaking out from behind a small mountain range. Not many people were in the road this early in the morning unless they had to go to work. And even so. It was a Sunday.

He sneered as he continued to walk. He took his hands out of his pocket to adjust the sleeves of his outfit – it was almost exactly like the one he had decided to wear on _that day_. It was his favourite outfit and she had not only damn well nearly killed him, but ruined it beyond repair._ To add insult to injury_, he balked, rolling his eyes. Finally adjusting his collar, pulling it straight, he paused mid stride to painfully turn his head at a store.

An open store. At four in the morning. What were the odds? He frowned as he turned and headed toward it, hoping to get at least something in his stomach that would curb his hunger. _Maybe I should have kept the IV_, he thought dryly. _At least in that case, I wouldn't have to nourish myself._

The wind blew straight into his face as he turned, causing his hair to flutter back behind him. He subconsciously tried to bring it back to order, but his frowned deepened as he realized what a hassle it was. It was _four_ in the morning. Nobody was going to see him.

He quickly dashed across the street and ploughed softly into the door with his less-pained shoulder. It opened hesitantly, and he slipped in quietly, leaving the door to shut with a rather loud noise. He shot his eyes around – it was a small grocery store.

And accompanied with all grocery stores – the obligatory elevator type music. He growled at the stupid noise before crossing his arms, lowering his head slightly (trying not to wince) and heading into the aisles. The products passed him, but he didn't even look up. It was like he subconsciously knew where he was going. Finally looking up, he grabbed a bottle of water off the shelf and grasped it tightly.

Taking off his sunglasses with his freehand, he put them in his jacket pocket, his eyes conveying the only thing they could, recently – anger.

"Humph."

The noise made him jump a little bit – the store looked deserted, aside from the bored teenage cashier at the desk, filing her nails. Narrowing his eyes until they were slits, he stopped on a dime and tensed, waiting for another sound.

"Honey, please."

It was a man's voice, and it was one that sounded vaguely familiar. Jackson pursed his lips as he listened before cautiously beginning to walk to the origin of the voice.

"What?" the woman's voice was shrill.

"Michael's expecting us to be at the Lux Atlantic. We can't let what happened to us a couple of weeks ago to get us off our rocker." The man was tired. Jackson blinked as he tried to visualize the emotion. He was probably rubbing his temples, sighing and looking entirely hopeless.

"Bob!" the woman cried angrily. The sudden high octave made Jackson wince slightly. His ears were still sensitive after hearing nothing for weeks. "You know the _disrespect_ that Lisa Reisert showed us? A comment card! A _comment card_!"

Jackson opened his eyes as he grinned. Of course. Bob and Mary Taylor.

_(The hotel restaurant was closing, but he didn't care. He sat, carefully moving the wrist with his drink in it, watching the liquid of his Long Island Iced Tea swirl precisely. He let out a small tired smile at the bartender who was watching him with utter fascination. He was well hidden from the main desk – he had to be like that, but he could still see it perfectly._

"_We have a reservation under Taylor."_

"_Of course!" Lisa replied cheerfully. "We have your room all made up, just as you expect."_

_The chirp in her voice was obviously fake at this time of night. He let out a quiet chuckle and shook his head slightly. _

"_Ah, thank you Lisa. You're a real sweetheart!" Mary chimed, perfectly peppy in all of her ways. She took the receipt and signed it before giving her small bag to her husband which made Jackson roll his eyes in disbelief._

"_We'll be down at six in the morning tomorrow for your Continental Breakfast…make sure you have no eggs…" Bob said warningly before walking off._

_Her smile faded as soon as they were out of sight. She hated them. He hated them. They were arrogant and the center of their own universe – everybody else was merely slaves. Although he considered that sometimes, he acted a little bit like that, he was never…that bad. He frowned as he downed the rest of his drink. Hatred. Such a pretty thing.)_

And now they were here. Probably walking down the next aisle…they were expecting someone named Michael…?

"I suppose we could _call_ him…" Mary was probably frowning.

"But, dear, he's not out of his exams yet – he told us not to call him until then." Bob reminded her gently. Jackson ran a hand through his hair quietly.

Bingo.

He glanced scathingly at the bottle of water in his hand, which had caused his knuckles to go white around it. He turned on his heels, grimacing as the pain twisted his still raw wounds in his chest and headed towards the cashier.

_That. Damn. Music._ He yelled at himself, frustrated with the constant ringing of the stripped down, well, elevator music. He couldn't explain it any better. _Shut it off or I'm going to go insane. _

_Maybe I already am._

Stifling a chuckle, he walked up to the counter and put the water on the top of it. Locking eyes with the cashier, he forced a smile on his face. She, obviously tired, gave one back before slowly reaching for the water.

"A bit early, isn't it?" she roughly commented, scrutinizing him.

"I suppose," he rasped, automatically putting his hand on his throat. He scolded himself as he didn't need to do that anymore, but it made the pain ease slightly. She only raised an eyebrow.

"You 'kay, man?"

He let out an apologetic shrug, "I just got out of the hospital," he murmured, closing his eyes.

_It's not like I'm lying. I did get out, after all. No need to mention that I'm a wanted criminal and assassin._

She slowly looked at him and nodded, ringing his water through. He tapped his fingers impatiently on the tabletop, trying to give her a subtle message without strangling her. She obviously wasn't either awake enough or smart enough to get it. She kept pulling it through slowly.

He glanced over his shoulder, ignoring the flaring pressure in his throat, and he saw the Taylors walking with a cart loaded with cheap wine and other alcohol, bickering amongst themselves. The register dinged, bringing his sharp attention back to it and the girl.

She watched his eye movement with fascination, and visibly jumped when he whipped his head around to stare at her. It was a cold, icy stare that penetrated her very thoughts. "Um…that'll …be two bucks."

"Right." He murmured, reaching into his pocket for his loose bills that he had smartly decided to go to the bank to get. Even though he had the stupid guard's credit cards, he still had the ability to get into his own bank account and withdraw the money that Agency had put there. He separated it and placed two bills on the counter before scooping up his water. "Nice day," he shortened the normal salutation because of his throat. She concernedly nodded.

"You too."

Stepping outside into the rapidly warming air, he unscrewed the cap of the bottle and took a long sip. It felt refreshing to his parched mouth.

Until it reached his throat.

Coughing in the sudden fit of pain from the water trying to caress the wound, he choked. He spat the water out, watching as it fell to the concrete. His eyes were blazing angrily as a couple loose streams of water trickled just down his chin. It made him think of blood.

He growled as wiped it away and flung it to the ground, making it spatter unceremoniously…just like his own blood.

"Dammit, I just can't win!" he yelled, although it came out as a hoarse whisper. "She'll pay. Just as soon as I can get a way into the hotel…She'll pay," he repeated confidently, his voice a low snarl.

Discarding the rest of the water on the pavement, he glared daggars through it, more than a little bit mad. Licking his damp lips, he slowly walked to the other side of the building and flattened him against the wall, causally glancing out into the street. He saw a few more passerbys, but nobody truly suspicious.

"Fine, Bob!" she was exasperated, her step heavy. She pouted, knowing that she lost. "Fine, we'll go to the Lux. But I'll be _damned_ if I have Lisa Reisert take care of me! And that little _witch_, whatever-her-name-is."

_That would be 'oh-so-perky-Cynthia'_, he grumbled to himself, shaking his head.

_("Hello? Cy-nn-th-iaa."_ _He grimaced as he realized the line was dead. Looking at the back of the phone, he read the standard message saying that the phones were out of service. Frowning, he slammed the phone back on the base, his movement accentuated with a loud clap of thunder. Lightning lit up the window, giving a ghostly luminescence to both his eyes and the tear streaks down her face._

"_Cute," he muttered, staring at her intently. He could only hold every emotion to stop himself from headbutting her again – this time a lot of people were awake because of the turbulance. His eyes sparkled as she avoided his gaze, carefully looking down. He leaned forward and brushed his arm against a hastily moving stewardess._

"_Excuse me," he harshly called over the thunder, "The phones are out."_

_Condescendingly, she nodded at him. He scowled. "Sometimes the phones go out when we encounter turbulance, We'll get them back shortly."_

_Shortly. He frowned as he leaned back in his seat. Shortly. Great. Time was not going well, and his friends at Agency wouldn't be happy. Why couldn't they just send Diana, the other manager, on this mission? Cause he was a guy and could intimidate her better than another woman?_

_He scoffed inwardly, _She_ could be intimidating when she needed to be.)_

Worry flashed across his eyes as he realized that he didn't have a plan to convince them to _not_ stay at the Lux. He frowned as he randomly came up with a plan. With shaking hands, he took the shades out of his pocket and put them on his face. Better if they couldn't see his eyes.

He timed their gravely footsteps closely and carefully spun himself out of the alley quickly, knocking the Mrs off of her feet. He glanced down apologetically and watched as her husband picked her up gingerly.

"Watch where you're walking, you idiot," she spat, her fist shaking in front of his face.

"Sorry, ma'am. Say," he paused, narrowing his eyebrows for effect, "I recognize you…have you been to the local university?"

"Erm – yes, our son goes there, Michael." Mary raised her eyebrow concernedly.

"Ah, that's it. I'm a professor there. I teach Michael Taylor – face I'll never forget," he added, hoping to _all_ god that he wasn't generic. Obviously, the pride of the parents got in the way and he knew he hit the mark. "I saw you go over there a couple of times last semester…"

He knew he was risking it, but he didn't care. Improvisation was what he was amazing at. After carrying on the conversation for a couple moments, he paused, crossing his arms.

"Oh, yes. I forgot to mention – Michael mentioned to me before he started his exam yesterday that he wasn't going to be able to get off on time, one of his exams was rescheduled. He also heard what had happened at the Lux Atlantic and told me that he didn't want you to be exposed to that type of…"

"'Accident'," Bob scoffed, wrinkling his nose, "that's what they called it. Accident."

"Right." Jackson rolled his eyes behind his glasses. "Anyways, he said he was going to call you, but he wasn't going to have time. I wasn't supposed to relay the message, but this is too much of a coincidence to not pass it up. He said that he was going to tell you to go to another hotel, and he'd call the Lux and make sure everything was ok. After your ordeal, he didn't want you to go through too much…_stress_."

There. The cards were on the table. He wore his poker face. Now, the only problem was them calling his bluff. They looked amongst themselves and then to the bag of cheap booze and then back to themselves.

Jackson revelled in this moment of silence. It was the anticipation of the waiting – if they realized he was lying, well, he'd have to take them out, and since he didn't have a weapon, he could only hope that those drinks were _really_ heavy. And then he would take pleasure in bashing them over the head with them, stabbing the pieces into their skulls, and leaving their bludgeoned bodies to lay in the alleyway for someone to find.

**Animosity **– a noun.

1. Bitter hostility or open enmity; active hatred.

2. A hostile feeling or act.

Intensity passed between them. Finally, Mary bit her lip and nodded, sighing heavily. "Yeah. He's right, of course, the little angel." Jackson did all he could not to growl or gurgle or whatever sounds of absolute contempt that he could make.

"We could go to the Bayside Glade Inn, it's about an hour or two from here." Bob cut in, nodding.

"Aw, thank you, Professor …?"

"Jackson." He interjected, smiling courteously. "And no problem. Just call him when you get to the hotel. He'll want to know that I've spoken with you."

"Of course!" the chipper, fake Taylors were back. "Nice to meet you, Jackson."

He only nodded as he turned away from the chattering couple. His legs carried them, all his wounds feeling numb, the adrenaline surging through him. It made him _pleased_. He flipped his glasses off with a hand, pressing the legs against his pale green shirt. His Eye of Animosity was grinning, pleased with the intellectual game.

_Oh, gullibility runs rampant in this country. Very few are not susceptible to it. And now, I am Michael Taylor. A student waiting at the Lux Atlantic for his parents._

_What great fun this will be.

* * *

_

Author's Note: AW! YES! I FINALLY GOT ANOTHER CHAPTER UP! I feel so proud now :) Heh. I'm such an adorable geek, admit it. :) Anyways. School just started and I finished my Cranefic, Solitude, first, and I didn't really get a good chance to work on this til tonight.

Now. That said. I'm really not _too_ pleased with this chapter. I wrote it in a rush and this is really just filler fluff. I dunno what in the world made me do the grocery store (maybe cause I was just in a grocery store, susceptible to their EVIL tunes and I needed to vent?) bit, but eh. And the Taylors. I love to hate them. So I had to include them. My original plan was to have him kill them but then again, he didn't have means, and well, killing so soon after getting free would be a tiny bit messy. Sigh.

Oh. And yes, I do know that the organization named "Agency" goes to the Hitman series of games. I was playing a lot over the past few days. I just thought it was appropriate. And so I stuck Diana (from Agency) in there – in the game she basically portrays the same role as Jackson. Coincidence, anyone? So I don't own them either. If I did, I'd have a copy of Hitman 4: Blood Money by now. :(

**allee kat: **I know, I should post the pic of that guy, eh? Hehehe. The pic REALLY doesn't do him justice though. I blame the flash. Ug! Flash always ruins things.

**Eccentric Banshee: **Oh. My. God. Your fangirl session with Crane made me choke on my drink cause that is almost EXACTLY how I would react! I'm such a nerd like that. We all are, I think. Anyways. I'm glad you like Jackson's thoughts. In a way, they're kinda like mine. I'm uber-sarcastic in my mind and although I'm not crazy or like Jackson or anything, these are absolute nth degrees of my thoughts. Heh. And I'm glad you also liked the revenge Jackson got for his name. :) It makes me angry when someone calls him Jack too. It's like calling someone with an hyphenated name by the first part. Just irks me, I suppose. Anyways, thanks and continue with the great reviews!

**Elle Farraday-Merchant:** Yay you forgive me :) I can be happy now! And yes, his looks could kill at 200 paces. I'd drop dead on sight :D You demanded continuation and you got it. Albeit a bit late. So sorry!

**The Logical Ghost:** Yeah, I know, I love creative license (huggles it to death). I mean, it basically lets me get people out of impossible situations. Hehe. Anyways. You're being logical. As usual. By your penname. I suppose. And I'll stop rambling. … ;)

**Erik's Mistress**: I dunno how I get Jackson's character down so well. I suppose as I've said, he's a very radical nth degree of me. I'm just sarcastic and a bit cynical in my age. He's sarcastic and cynical and sadistic and an…assassination manager…um. Yes. :) And he stole a car. Doesn't mean he wouldn't wanna ride with you though :-p

Anyways. Mucho thanks also goes to Chanel86, Claire Hall, DunnoHowToWrite, Laurenmlbc and Bimefl for also reviewing. I heart you guys. Again, sorry it was up so late. Lack of idea and school equals suckitude. But I did start writing this chapter in my math class. How cool is that!


	6. Eye of Unmitigated Infliction

**6. Eye of Unmitigated Infliction**

_They say it's easy to forgive and forget, but I say forget about forgiving and accept the inevitability of your destruction. When you make a wrong move against the wrong person; a single slip-up can cause immeasurable pain, both physically, and most importantly of all:_

_Mentally._

_A knife (...or a pen) can slice through flesh easily, but a mind can dive deeper and burrow under the skin, lying within the tissue, looking at the impulses running throughout your body. Analyzing, controlling, laughing. An everlasting voice, whispering._

_I'm with you, Imzadi. You'll never get rid of me._

_You hear that, don't you? It walks with you and torments your thoughts. You don't realize where it's coming from, but it chills you all the same. That's the problem - your perception is only limited to three dimensions. Think of the fourth._

_Think of me._

_But Imzadi, don't fret...I do know some measure of compassion. I will warn you before your suffering begins, a freedom that you so horribly denied me. That wasn't very good of you, now was it? Tsk, you know, I will want an apology for what you did to me. Force yourself to look in the mirror - you're not so different than I. However much pain it will cause you to come to that blinding truth, it is right there. Staring you in the face._

_Your mistake was capitalizing on my mistake._

_One mistake._

_Your life is destroyed. Just like you destroyed mine._

_Ta-ta._

_- JR_

_(Wrong guess, Lise - it's not your father.)_

Calmly putting the pen down on the dash, he firmly gripped the note, written in his hasty, yet complexly neat writing. His eyes scanned it quietly, then smiling to himself, he looked up from the note into the early morning sun. Squinting as the sun reflected off the windows, he folded the note crisply.

Reaching for the pen with his gloved hand, he breathed in the morning air.

**Unmitigated **– an adjective

1. Not diminished or moderated in intensity or severity; unrelieved: _unmitigated suffering._

2. Without qualification or exception; absolute: _an unmitigated lie._

Grabbing the pen, he quickly drew a sketch onto an unoccupied part of the lined paper, the edges frayed from behing torn out of his notebook, not unlike the way he tore the pen from his throat. He quickly sketched an outline of an airplane – art was not one of his strong points. Frowning to himself, he quietly added the words "Flight 1019" on the side, just to make sure his point was gotten.

Stiffling a chuckle, he paused in his drawing before putting the note delicately in his pocket, like it was a fragile porcelain object. He couldn't afford to have the note crumpled. It would look like he was out of control. And no need to make _her_ any more arrogant than she was.

**Infliction** – a noun

1. The act or process of imposing or meting out something unpleasant.

2. Something, such as punishment, that is inflicted.

Opening the Lexus door, he stood up and stretched. Wiping hair from his eyes, and briefly rubbing the skin holstering his inflamed neck tenderly, he quietly walked.

The golden inscripture boasting that the hotel was indeed the Lux Atlantic was glinting in the light, reflecting off the water. Part of the building was gone, but he didn't care.

His Eye of Unmitigated Infliction was out in full force. Whether it was going to be more mental or physical, he couldn't tell. But _she_ was going to suffer. And it wasn't going to be _half_ as humerous as what she did to him.

* * *

**Author's Note**: I RISE! I RISE FROM THE DEAD! LOL! Now, that that's out of the way. I suppose I owe an explaination, eh? Well, I last updated this end of August. Then school started. And it's been murder. And then, about 2nd week of school, I got ill for 3 weeks. Now this included getting larengitis. And so, now, I can officially say I know what it feels like to be penned (thanks for that phrase hilby, I use it all the time now :)). Gasping for breath and talking with a rasp for a week is not fun. Poor Jackson :( And, hilariously enough, I am going through the same thing again right now. ANYWAYS. October rolled around and that was my apathetic month. I did nothing except for dress up as a Jedi for Halloween. Then November. My birthday and loads of Star Trek. And then I said "I suddenly really REALLY wanna update Eye of Spite". And voila. Sigh. :(

So I apologize for my long absence. It was definately unwarrented. And I really didn't have time or patience cause of being sick ATM do write a full chapter. So I got more fluff. I haven't seen Red Eye in months so I HOPE I still have Jackson right. If not, I kinda went down a small Hannibal route :P Hee. Another note about this chapter: yes, I am watching Star Trek: Nemesis. Thus the "Imzadi" (Imzadi - Star Trek's Betazed for "beloved", whilst used normally, it can be used kinda mockingly, as it was in Nemesis. Heeey, Jackson can be a Trek fan too, mmmk? ;)) and the mirror reference. I won't go into that but yeah.

Anyways...

Bimefl: Yes. Fluff is definately needed. I just can't write fluff, lol :)

BregoBeauty: I love people who hate elevator music. It's so. Annoying. (kills the elevator music) Sorry the update wasn't soon though :\

Eccentric Banshee: First off, I luff your reviews. Heart. Oh, and sorry, I had to use "of" again XD Hope you don't go run off screaming! Hehehe. And you know your description of Jackson sitting there? Well, that's exactly how I pictured him too. We're both so weird that we're like, connected. Hitman rules. Sometimes, I don't follow the missions either and I just go around shooting everyone. It's fun! 47 & Diana OTP! And you wanna know something? Not like, 2 days after your review, I actually found a shirt in my winter clothes pile, with a turtle on it that says "I'm one of those bad things that happens to good people". I was like "OMGOMGOMG! That's SO AWESOME!" I wear that shirt like, everytime I'm in a Jackson-esque mood now. It's not in the green though (shame, I like the green :() Thanks Sara! Mhwa!

Roony: Not sure if I started the "impromptu tracheotomy". I know when I first posted this there were only a few fics here, so maybe I did (heh, and here I thought I'd die without ever being quoted in my life)

Hilby: I draw my descriptions of pain from my mind, lol. I love creative writing, and I've done a lot of e-fedding (aka online wrestling writing RPGs) and thus I've needed to work on a lot of pain/suffering/angsty writing. I'm also glad everyone seems to love the Taylors. I loved em in a kinda "I wanna harm them cause they get on my nerves" kinda way :) And yes. Cillian in a scarf equals heart. Especially THAT scarf. When it's all floating and all amazingly hawt and stuff...swoon. Anyways, about the clam chowder, I can't describe it. I've never been one to enjoy it. \ weird.

Blodeuedd: Your Solitude reviews were helpful :) so was this one. And you demand, so I obey kehehe.

Anyhoo. I'm tired. I should be sleeping (or crying cause the end of Nemesis _always_ makes me cry - no exception) so I'm gonna end this here. I hope I didn't scare all of you off with this. More will be soon. And not 2 and a half months soon! I promise!

Bethany out!


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